


Home Is Where My Horse Is

by HeavensCrack



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff and Humor, Geralt loves roach, Geralt sings!, JATP reference, M/M, Pre-Slash, They love each other, They’re very drunk in the woods, can be read as platonic or romantic, this is very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27520207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavensCrack/pseuds/HeavensCrack
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt get drunk in the forest… Geralt sings for Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 67





	Home Is Where My Horse Is

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you so much to Kittenkakt for beta-ing and your indispensable help. 💙
> 
> Secondly, the title of this song and the lyrics were stolen completely from Jeremy Shada’s beautiful song “Home Is Where My Horse Is” (https://youtu.be/zVNZ-qpDa9U - as always, this is not mine, I do not have the rights to it.), inspired by Julie and the Phantoms. This song lives rent-free in my head and I had to give Reggie’s last brain cell to drunk Geralt. Please watch JATP if you haven’t, it’s very good and wholesome! 
> 
> Enjoy the read!

“I think,” Jaskier says slowly. 

Geralt hums. “You don’t.” 

“Shut the fuck up!” Jaskier laughs. He takes another swig of vodka. They’re on their… third? bottle. Geralt doesn’t know, just knows he is pleasantly warm. 

It’s a good night. Geralt has no contracts, Jaskier no commitments, they’re both fresh off jobs and just wandering the Path in search of something. Something, in this case, being copious amounts of alcohol Jaskier smuggled out of his last banquet. 

The vodka is nice on this warm summer night, the two of them sitting beside the fire and listening to the popping logs. It’s mostly silent, aside from the crackling flames, the chirping of crickets, and the laughter pealing out of his companion. They don’t get to unwind like this often. Geralt prefers not to get drunk outside of Kaer Morhen, alcohol slows him down. He wants to stay alert, to make sure they’re safe. But tonight, they are safe, they’re happy, and they get to relax. 

“I think,” Jaskier continues. “I think you should sing me a song.” 

Geralt snorts. Jaskier only actively tries to get Geralt to sing when he’s properly hammered. It’s never worked before. 

“You’re three sheets to the wind, bard,” Geralt says, amused. 

“You’re three shits to- ah, fuck,” Jaskier falls on his side, trying to reach for his bag. He catches the strap, dragging it through the dirt towards himself. 

“Here,” Jaskier passes Geralt the bottle before setting the dusty bag on his lap. Geralt takes that as an invitation to finish it. It’s mostly full still, which is good, more for him. Jaskier rummages through the bag for a minute, tossing random items out, before triumphantly pulling out his red leather-bound songbook and quill. It takes another minute to locate the small ink pot. By the time Jaskier finds what he’s looking for, Geralt has emptied the bottle. It tastes like ass, but he’s pleasantly fuzzy. Like Roach. She’s fuzzy. Horses… she has hair. Hair can be fuzzy. He should ask Jaskier if horses are fuzzy. Jaskier is good with words. 

Jaskier waves Geralt over, patting the ground beside him. Geralt’s almost tempted to tell him to come over to him if he wants to be close so badly, but decides against it. He stands, with no difficulty, thank you; he definitely isn’t swaying a bit as he walks. He plops down heavily beside his friend, their knees touching.

“Here,” Jaskier repeats, dumping the book in Geralt’s lap. Geralt opens the cover; Jaskier never lets him see what’s in this book. Whatever words he scrawls in this book- as opposed to his blue songbook, the one Geralt is allowed to read- are sacred. “No, no, don’t read that,” Jaskier flips to an empty page. “Here.” 

“It’s white,” Geralt tells him. There are no words. 

“I want you to sing. Sing me a song,” Jaskier says. “Nothing sad. Sing me… a love song.” 

Geralt watches Jaskier’s lips move. They’re flapping around, saying words, but he’s not… singing? Yes, Geralt has to sing a love song. Not a sad song, something sweet. Fuck it. There’s no reason he shouldn’t sing, is there? Jaskier does it all the time. If Jaskier can, so can he. 

_“When a humble bard,”_ Geralt starts. His voice cracks. Ugh. His voice isn’t nice. Not like Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s voice is good, like a hot bath. 

“No!” Jaskier shouts. Geralt jumps, tensing up immediately. He scans the clearing for danger, reaching for his sword, which… hm. He’s not sure where it is. It takes him too long to realize that Jaskier is reacting to _him._

“Did I sing it wrong?” 

“You didn’t,” Jaskier says. “You did. I don’t want you to sing that one.” 

“You said sing a love song. You wrote it, you love me,” Geralt says, more than a little hurt. 

“I do,” Jaskier agrees, gently patting Geralt’s cheek. His face is flushed, but not from the confession. They love each other. Jaskier is Geralt’s best friend, aside from Roach. They may not say it out loud, but Geralt would sit bare-assed on a scorpion if it kept Jaskier safe. Every patched wound, every smile they draw out of each other, the shared jokes and long walks, the comfortable silence and constant bickering, they know. They don’t need to say it. They both know how they feel. 

Geralt hums. He’s not sure how to respond. 

“I don’t want you to sing _my_ song,” Jaskier explains. “I want you to sing _your_ song.” 

“My song?” Geralt asks, confused. He has lots of songs. No. He has no songs. Jaskier has songs. They share them though, like they share bedrolls. And food. And saddlebags. They share everything. So he has lots of songs! “All my songs were written by you.”

“That’s why you have to write one!” Jaskier clumsily presses the quill into Geralt’s hand. He looks expectantly at Geralt, blue eyes wide and encouraging. “Go on,” he says. “Just dip the tip in and yeeeeah, like that.” Geralt dips the quill in and starts to write, but is surprised to see only dirt on the paper. He frowns, looking down and seeing the ink pot beside Jaskier. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t there before. He grabs the ink pot. Jaskier is oblivious, continuing to speak as if it never happened. “Write a song about your favourite person in the whole wide world. That’s why I write about you, you, you…” Jaskier trails off.

Geralt knows. He ponders it carefully. His favourite person in the whole wide world, that’s very easy. He starts to write, scribbling the words down messily, scratching some out and rewriting until he thinks he has something. He’s been around Jaskier long enough, heard enough of his lectures to know proper… stanzas… and shit. Stanza is one of the words Jaskier uses regularly, he’s sure of it. Or is it a sansa? It starts with an s. There’s still something missing though. 

“Can you play a tune?” Geralt asks. “Something happy.” Jaskier, delighted to oblige, pulls the lute onto his lap. He sits there, beaming dumbly at Geralt. Geralt stares expectantly. Jaskier blinks, then starts to strum. Both of them look down at the silent lute. Jaskier is petting the lute case, rubbing the hardened leather with his finger tips. 

“What’s that doing there?” Jaskier frowns. He pulls the lute out, throwing the case to the side carelessly, and plucks a string, nodding when the note rings out. He starts strumming again, this time loud and clear. He tests a couple chords, pleased when Geralt hums his approval. 

“Go slow here. Yes… yes… now faster, faster, go go go,” Geralt says. Jaskier strums a bit faster. Geralt listens carefully, before nodding his approval. “Just play along, okay?” 

Geralt swallows before he starts to sing.

_“Home, what is it really?  
Sometimes it’s a someone and not a place,  
It’s that feeling of being safe,  
It’s about who you’re with at the end of the day… and for me…_

_“Home is where my horse is!  
Riding through trees by the river,  
Feel the summer breeze smile getting bigger,  
Home is where my horse is,   
I see the beautiful beast running up to me   
And I know   
I’m home.” _

He trails off. It’s dreadful. He didn’t have a particular tune in mind, and he couldn’t match his singing to Jaskier’s melody at all. His voice isn’t meant for singing. It sounds like a heaping pile of kikimora shit. With the proper voice and practice though, it could be _brilliant._ Better than Toss a Coin. Maybe even better than the fish song. 

“Should’ve fucking… fucking… yeah,” Jaskier mutters, but he’s smiling widely. 

Geralt’s grinning too, bumping his head against Jaskier’s affectionately. “My favourite person in the whole wide world.” 

Jaskier carefully packs the lute back in its case before retrieving his book from Geralt and packing that into his bag too. He reaches for the vodka bottle, but scowls when he finds it empty. “You knave, it’s dead. It has no insides. No blood,” he says sadly. “It’s dead.” He drops the bottle, knocking it to the side with his hand. 

Geralt shrugs. It didn’t need its blood. Jaskier grumbles a bit more before crawling to his bedroll and collapsing face down on it. Geralt stumbles over beside him, rolling Jaskier onto his side and letting the other man immediately wrap his arms around him. 

“You’re mine, you know,” Jaskier says, “the, hm, end.” 

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees. 

It doesn’t take long for the crickets to lull them into sleep. 

***

Geralt wakes up slowly, blinking in the sunlight. The bard is across his chest, drooling on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt doesn’t feel bad about shoving him into the dirt. 

Jaskier stirs with a groan, grunting louder when he opens his eyes to the bright light. Geralt smirks as Jaskier reaches up an arm to cover his face. 

“You ruined my favourite shirt,” Geralt says. It’s not ruined, the drool can easily be washed out. Jaskier mumbles something that sounds remarkably like “duck cough”. 

Geralt grins. Someone clearly had too much vodka, Geralt thinks, eyeing the bottles around the charred wood. Jaskier’s stuff is also scattered around the camp. He doesn’t particularly recall last night, just sitting contently by the fire for a while and then some music, he definitely heard the lute before sleeping. He seems a lot more fit this morning than Jaskier, so he’s certain he didn’t drink that much. He stretches, rolling his shoulders. It feels nice. 

“Be ready in an hour,” Geralt calls. He coughs slightly, his voice is rougher than usual, for some odd reason. He’ll let Jaskier have time to wake up properly, maybe look for some berries in the meantime. 

When he comes back, Jaskier is at least vertical, but he looks rumpled and grumpy. It’s hilarious. He scowls when Geralt chucks a blackberry at his head, but he still accepts his handful and tosses one back. Geralt catches it in his mouth, feeling the tart berry explode on his tongue. 

“I don’t know why you’re so chipper in the morning,” Jaskier whines, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Nothing good comes from the morning.” 

“What about the sparkling dew, the held breath of the day, the chorus of birds heralding the sun, singing of the fresh hopes of morn?” Geralt questions. 

“Don’t quote shit poetry at me,” Jaskier groans. “You know Valdo fucking Marx wrote that one, you’re just trying to piss me off. You know the held breath line was mine? Thieving bastard.” 

Geralt shrugs. Shit as Marx is, he isn’t wrong. The morning is peaceful. There’s no travellers on the Path in the morning. When he’s alone, the birdsong reminds him of Jaskier, but he’ll never admit that. 

It takes another 20 minutes before Jaskier declares himself functional to start moving. They pack up camp, Jaskier becoming more animated the longer he speaks. He’s back to his usual self soon, talking about the benefits of penultimate rhymes, something that’s lost on Geralt completely. 

They take their time today, no particular destination in mind, walking until the sun is touching the tops of the trees. They find a nice clearing off the side of the road, out of view of the well-travelled path. 

Jaskier immediately sits on the grass, not bothering to look for firewood or set up camp yet. 

Geralt pulls Roach’s brush out of the saddlebags before removing the rest of her tack. “Good girl,” he murmurs, brushing it through her coat. She huffs at him, butting his chest. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls. Geralt turns to him, eyebrow cocked. Jaskier is holding his red songbook, brows furrowed in confusion. “What the everloving fuck is this?” He holds out the book. Strange, this is Jaskier’s secret songbook, Geralt’s not allowed to read it. 

He scans the page warily, before shooting Jaskier a baffled look. He doesn’t know what he’s looking at. It’s just scribbles, unintelligible lines crawling down the page. In the middle of the page, a circle, with another circle and some sticks… is that supposed to be a horse? Beside the maybe-horse are two figures holding hands, one with long hair and… fuck. Maybe he wasn’t quite as lucid as he thought last night. 

Geralt just shrugs and hands the book back. “You shouldn’t drink so much, Jaskier.” 

“This isn’t my writing!” Jaskier squawks.

“It’s not writing at all,” Geralt answers, searching for his bow in the saddle bag. He’ll go looking for some deer, the meat would last them ages. He strides into the forest behind them. 

“Geralt! This could be serious! Someone could’ve read my- they could’ve… Geralt!” 

Jaskier’s distressed calls follow him into the woods. Geralt smirks. “Who would read it, Jaskier? There’s no one but the two of us here, alone, in the woods. Not another person in sight for days.” 

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Jaskier shouts. “This is… it’s private! There are _things_ , Geralt, things that should not be read by the common man!” 

“You’re fine, Jaskier, nobody would want to read your secret erotica diary anyways.” He walks faster. He’ll have to go further now, Jaskier’s yelling is probably scaring off all the game.

“GERALT OF _RIVIA_ , THAT’S NOT EVEN-”

He’ll be in trouble when he gets back, he knows. It’s worth it.


End file.
